Every Tuesday it happens. There is a feeling of anticipation in the air, the local shops appear to hold their breath awaiting the onset of the weekly fruit and vegetable market that descends on the neighbourhood.
The traffic is diverted for a day, the market's streets are packed with purposeful women and elderly men hunting for the bargains. One can instantly tell where the deals are by the presence of a crowd of women usually in headscarves with pull along shopping trolleys (the type my mother used in the 70s) haggling over a pile of peppers or onions.
There is a feeling of plenty, of bounty even. The beautiful rows of purples, reds, oranges, greens of every hue. The fish stall shows off its tantalisingly fresh cheap harvest of the sea. The stall holders yell out their undecipherable calls.
In all this I sense something deeply and profoundly whole.
A vegetable bazaar in Istanbul.